The Universe Works Beyond the Limit of My Strength

“The universe works beyond the limit of my strength.”

This is a story about worry.

From December through to March 23rd, I worried constantly. Relentlessly. The kind of worry that hums in the background and then slowly takes over everything.

Did that cause the stroke?

I don’t know. I may never know. But it feels worth acknowledging.

Even now, I don’t feel quite right. It’s as if my inner eye is slightly out of focus. I catch myself searching for a way back to who I was before—and when I really look at that, it feels… daft. The old version of me would have embraced a new path, a new self, without hesitation. Yet this version of me is softer, more emotional, and—if I’m honest—quietly afraid. Afraid of triggering another stroke.

That fear needs to be moved through.

But it also needs to be honoured. Because it is part of the process.

There is still a sense of wonder around what has happened. Alongside that, there’s the practical reality—I need to balance the medication, to recognise that not everything I’m feeling is purely “me” or purely “my body.” It’s all part of the same mix now, and I have to learn how to live within it.

I worried my way here. And now I’m being asked to do the exact opposite—to let go. To allow the universe, the flow, the higher self—whatever name you give it—to take over.

And here’s the irony: just at the moment I need that trust the most, doubt has crept in.

It’s almost comical. Like losing your faith in the middle of a crisis.

But I don’t work with faith. I work with knowing.

I know what I know. I’ve felt it. I’ve experienced the Watcher within, the movement of something deeper—what I’ve called the Black Flame—the foundation I’ve built myself upon. Even if someone else would call that delusion, I can say this: it’s a powerful one. It has made me stronger.

And yet, the current is pushing doubt into my awareness anyway. Bluntly. Repeatedly. As if to say: you are not in control of every thought and feeling. There is something else here, something deeper, something that moves within you as much as you move within it.

Time feels like it’s speeding up. The world outside is shifting quickly. And here I am, being asked to slow down. To rest. The medication demands it. My body demands it.

It feels like time might pass me by.

And I have to allow that.

The changes from the stroke are no longer dramatic—they’re blending into everything. It’s the smaller shifts that are becoming more noticeable now. Subtle, but real.

And strangely, there’s a gentleness in my body that I didn’t know existed.

It loves this world. It feels deeply. My sensitivities are sharper than I ever imagined they could be.

I’ve always said, “I am not my body.” And I still believe that.

But now I also feel something else: a profound union.

There is me—the awareness, the observer, the one who knows. There is something higher, the Watcher. And then there is this cellular, animal body—ancient, wise, and deeply alive.

And we are not separate.

We are in relationship. A symbiotic, complex, and at times fragile union—trying to exist together within a harsh, entropic environment.

I don’t know what caused the stroke.

And yes, there is blame. There is sorrow. There are moments where I feel I must have done something wrong—something that harmed my body. That thought still brings tears.

Because I have worked so hard to keep us safe.

But I come back to where I began:

The universe—God, the Aeons, the Higher Self, whatever name fits—is not separate from me. It is part of me. It sees more than I can see. It knows more than I can know.

And I am allowed to acknowledge that.

I am allowed to trust that.

Especially when I feel like I can’t.

And perhaps most importantly—

Doubt is allowed too.

Just not in charge.

Silveness